


The Very Model of a Modern Major Millennial

by moodyblueangel



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Politics, Royalty, farcical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 09:56:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13005255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodyblueangel/pseuds/moodyblueangel
Summary: The result of the 2017 General Election has taken everyone in the country by surprise; including those residing at Buckingham Palace. Can Alfred and Drummond be the ones to unite the Royal household and the government, or will circumstances beyond their control keep them apart?For animateglee, templehill, twocandles, stardustweare88





	1. Election Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Whydidtheydothis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whydidtheydothis/gifts), [animateglee](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=animateglee), [twocandles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twocandles/gifts), [Stardust1980](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stardust1980/gifts).



“Is the result in yet, Lord Alfred?” Queen Victoria asked, fluttering into the drawing room. At only twenty five, she looked the very epitome of youth. Dressed in a racing green Dior sweater, teamed with black, tight fitting Capri trousers and Monolo heels, with large Chanel sunglasses covering most of her upper face, she looked like she was dressed for London Fashion Week, not cascading around the house. “Oh please say it’s over,” the young monarch continued, “They expected a result last night, at least that’s what I was told. What on earth is taking so long?”

The result expected was, of course, for the General Election. The country was in shock when, just a few short months earlier, Prime Minister William Lamb held a press conference to announce his resignation from the government. The waiting press had been certain that he was declare a new education initiative. They had been barking on all morning about how this policy was the Prime Minister’s crowning glory and would catapult him into a second term; the initiative he set out in his manifesto during the last election. He was going to shake up the school system in a way that would please both teachers and parents.

The press had been gearing up for this announcement for months. Information about the initiative had been leaked so routinely, they may have well set up web cam streaming live from the multiple meetings Lamb had with every education think tank, teaching union and governing body you could possibly think of. The morning of the press conference, you couldn’t turn on any tv or radio station without some talking head giving their uninformed opinion.

Then came the announcement. Members of the press stood open mouthed at the Prime Minister’s words. Twenty-four-hour news channels were frantically changing their coverage and banner headlines, practically dragging the education speakers out of the building by their lapels while directors and editors tore their hair out and started screaming at their research teams. They had all got it wrong.

The official explanation given in the brief, but momentous statement was that he would be resigning due to health reasons and he felt it only duty bound to call a general election so that the people of Britain could decide who would lead the country. Alfred was shocked, but even he wasn’t entirely sure if the reasons given were genuine. He didn’t want to pry and he respected the Prime Minister and the Queen so much, but the press were rabid. They never went out and suggested anything more than a close friendship between the monarch and Lamb, but the implications were all there to see. It was never printed or even spoken about, but there were said to be pictures. Of what exactly, Alfred wasn’t sure, but he knew money had changed hands with certain paparazzo, editors and the Palace. To save the Queen’s dignity, the rumours stated. He didn’t question it further; it wasn’t his business. He did however make sure that the Head Chef made the Queen her favourite lunch that day.

That had led them up to today. The Queen, who only a few short weeks ago was inconsolable over the loss of her Prime Minister, was now behaving thoroughly irked at the whole election, as if it were nothing more than a folly to inconvenience her day. Alfred knew Victoria well enough to understand her moods, they were second cousins by marriage. Or was that third cousins, once removed? Frankly, it could be both. The Royal Family linage had more tangled ties than a soap opera. The monarch’s ambivalence was a mask; a cover used to disguise the fact she was desolate at losing the man who was her confidant and support since her young ascension to the throne.

“I think they are just about ready to call the result,” Alfred responded, as the Queen delicately perched on an armchair, which was no doubt hundreds of years old but looked like it had been crafted by the three blind mice. If there was any colour scheme at all, he could only describe it as dishwater mixed with rain puddle. 

“Good, it’s gone on far too long. I don’t know why they must count all the votes by hand. Albert’s got a wonderful idea for how to speed up the process,” she stated, blinking furiously at the sudden change in light as she pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head, while simultaneously beaming with pride for her innovative husband.

“I’m sure he does, Ma’am,” Alfred replied, with just a hint of jest in his voice, all too aware of Albert’s flare and enthusiasm for new ideas. There was that time he forced Alfred to watch an entire season of 'Dragon’s Den', ordering him as a palace employee to write down the names and ideas of anything or anyone that peaked his curiosity. Alfred filed them in the folder marked ‘Royal Whimsy’ and vowed to delete the show off the series link from the prince’s television.

Victoria suddenly shuffled forward on her seat, the gold framed sunglasses propped on her head, dropping down slightly, giving her the look of a slightly baffled, but ever so well-dressed fruit fly, Alfred thought. At her excitement, she exclaimed, “Oh look, Alfred! That annoying man who interviewed Albert and I after Vicky was born. He looks like he’s about to call the result.”

Indeed, the Queen was right. The BBC were about to finally confirm the next government and its leader. Of course, it was expected to be John Russell, he of the ever-smiling wife. Alfred presumed that her staff carried around a collection of coat hangers they could ram into her mouth every time the circumstance called for mindless glee. Although, considering her children were so blonde and motionless they looked like extras from 'The Village of The Damned', he could understand the slight pained look on her face at having to go from town to town without expressing any sort of opinion or personality whatsoever. Freaky family aside, Russell was the assumed successor of the Prime Minister. He had been thoroughly endorsed by Lamb, in a series of awkward photo ops where the two men partook in the ‘activities of the people’; drinking a pint in an over priced pub, eating a bacon sandwich at a café in a borderline constituency, shaking the hand of every widow up and down the country. You couldn’t move the past few weeks without seeing the nation’s new double act standing arm in arm, slurping down a 99 on Bognor beach. There was no doubt about it. The Prime Minister expected Russell to win. The people expected Russell to win and the polls expected Russell to win.

“After all the excitement,” the BBC presenter gushed, though on hour thirty-six of election coverage, even his fake enthusiasm was starting to fade, “We can finally reveal the next Prime Minister will be Robert Peel. The Tory party have won the majority.”

The Prime Minister was wrong. The people were wrong. The polls were wrong. This was entirely unexpected, Alfred thought. The year had been full of surprises. What would be next?


	2. Game On

“Charlatans, Drummond! They’ll all turn their coats now we’re in office.”

Edward Drummond looked up from his mobile phone to absently nod his head in acknowledgement to his boss, the new Prime Minister of Britain. Robert Peel’s current focus was to curse the members of the press who didn’t give him a ghost of a chance of winning the election. Drummond, however, was currently on email three of two thousand that he needed to respond to, making connections and links with the press so they could actually achieve something in the next four years.

“Did you get The Guardian for our first exclusive?” the Prime Minister enquired, taking one solitary pen out of his pocket and laying it on his empty desk. Feeling satisfied that he now had everything he could possibly need to run a country, he slopped himself down on his chair, leaning back and folding his arms over his stomach.

“Yes, they will sit down in here with you. A one-hour interview, we pick the reporter and give them a possible list of questions to choose from,” Drummond replied, still managing to respond to his emails while perching on a sideboard. “We also have a deal with Hello magazine for an ‘At Home’ piece with yourself and Mrs Peel, taking place in the residence. They want to watch her make a chicken.”

“Chicken?” Peel spluttered, “How exactly will watching my wife make coq-au-vin help get our budget through parliament? The woman’s the director for the biggest PR company in London. If you want her in an apron, standing over a stove, you’ll have to ask her yourself, lad!”

Drummond grimaced at the thought. Since leaving university, five years previously, he had become one of the most respected and renowned political operatives in the town. He first met Peel during his last year at Cambridge. He was a wannabe local candidate looking to become an MP. Drummond had listened to a speech he had made about opportunities in education for students from poor backgrounds and it struck a chord with him. Straight after graduation, he began to work for the older man, helping him become a Member of Parliament, then the leader of the opposition, to now holding the highest position in government.

During this time, facing the country’s toughest journalists, politicians and campaigners had been a breeze compared to Emily Dove-Peel, his boss’ outspoken and career driven spouse. She left grown men weeping in her presence. She strutted into every room with a large black and white dogtooth coat draped around her shoulders, like a Disney villain out to steal the skins off your dalmatians. The image only persisted in Drummond’s mind by the fact that she had always insisted on calling him ‘Puppy.’

“Sir,” he started to respond, “I can’t stress to you how strongly important having a good image is to win hearts and minds around the country. After the last government, people want to see a family man, dedicated to his loving wife.”

“Right you are, lad,” Peel replied, his head nodding like a novelty dog statue, as he picked back up the pen he had placed carefully onto the table. “We shan’t have any of that business that plagued our predecessors, eh? Scandalous that was, all those rumours about Lamb and his minions. No, we have to be purer than pure, Drummond. You see to that.”

Drummond slightly recoiled at the almost impossible task of turning Cruella De Ville into Cinderella, and making a man, who was currently now scratching the inside of his nostril with a piece of stationary, look like Prince Charming; but that was his job.

He was hardworking, he flew through university, never stopping for a moment of distraction in the pursuit of his goals. His family had no connections to politics and he wanted to do this, he wanted this so badly. He knew with such a nepotistic business he would have to work twice as hard as his peers. He’d scrabbled, fought and bled his way to get into Cambridge, only to see all these other students flit away three years, knowing that they would have some plummy job gift wrapped at the end. He had worked day and night, missed parties, family occasions and birthdays to get where he was. He would not let anything get in the way of his career.

“I’ll email through the details to Mrs Peel, Sir,” Drummond said, flicking through his phone and adding the task to his increasingly large to do list. “I’m sure she will become enthusiastic about the idea.” In reality, Drummond knew that the Prime Minister’s wife would take up any opportunity to be in the limelight. Her business was to publicise other people, but she tended towards putting herself in focus more than anyone. She loved the thought of being the Prime Minister’s wife and Drummond had no illusions that it was anything to do with making the country better; only her own self-image. For her, if massaging rosemary oil into the breast of a chicken meant front cover coverage, then so be it.

“Excuse me, Prime Minister?” a sudden voice entered the room, making Drummond glance up from his work. It was Harriet, Peel’s dedicated assistant. She kept his diary updated with military precision and was imperative in helping Drummond control the caring, well meaning, but ultimately befuddled man to an election victory.

“Harriet! There you are! Come on in and have a sit down,” Peel exclaimed, beckoning the woman in. Drummond glanced around the office, wondering where exactly he wanted his assistant to sit, as he himself was currently balanced against an 18th century cabinet due to the lack of adequate furniture. He scrolled though his phone to shoot off a quick message to Fletcher, the Chief Downing Street Caretaker, that perhaps it might be a possibility to arrange some chairs before the visit by the German Chancellor next week. He didn’t think the press would react well to photos of the two leaders laying around on scatter cushions discussing the European economy.

“Sir,” Harriet continued, insistent in her pursuit, “I have to remind you again, you must arrange a time with the Palace. They will have been expecting you.”

Drummond froze. What with responding to the press, arranging interviews, sorting furniture and every other mindless task that comes with winning election, he’d perhaps forgotten the most important job. He’d taken over so many roles during the election, not only being Peel’s Political Director, but also controlling much of the communications work, that something was eventually bound to slip through the cracks. This probably shouldn’t have been it, though.

“Oh, can’t they wait, we’ve got enough to do here. Poor Drummond’s three-piece suit is almost ruffled, he’s so rushed off his feet.” Peel commented, signalling over to the younger man.

Drummond quickly stood up, the antique sideboard worryingly squeaking. He hoped that it wouldn’t suddenly break apart. He didn’t need the job of explaining to the rather morose Fletcher how they’d been in the place five minutes and it was literally falling apart. He didn’t like the thought of that coming out as a story in their first news cycle. The symbolism of the Peel’s staff breaking apart governmental property on the first day would be hard to spin their way.

“No, Sir, we must go to the Palace right away,” Drummond said, picking up Peel’s jacket from where the older man had thrown it on the floor. A coat stand would also be on the list of items to email through later, but more pressing issues were at hand. He gave the beige, tweed jacket a quick shake, hoping to get most of the dust and crisp crumbs off, before handing it to the Prime Minister, “You have to gain the Queen’s permission to form a government.”

Robert Peel seemed to turn his nose up and started putting his hands in his pockets, as if searching for the votes that would prove to the Queen that he had every right to form a government, thank you very much. “But she can’t say no, can she? We won’t be going back to making speeches in Working Men’s clubs, will we lad,” he said, giving a little chuckle.

“It is only a courtesy visit, Sir,” Drummond said, now being helped by Harriett to straighten the Prime Minister’s tie. “But this can help cement your relationship with the palace. You’ll have to meet with Her Majesty on a weekly basis and-“

“Weekly?! Why on earth do I have to do that? I’ve got a country to run here. I’ve not got time to meet a teenager for afternoon tea every bloody week!”

Drummond exchanged glances with Harriet, who looked like she was thinking the same thing he was. They should have prepped more for this. In his absolute heart of hearts though, even he was shocked when they won the election. Yes, he had put his heart and soul and every fibre of his being in to getting a win, but he didn’t think he’d end up here. They’d thoroughly surpassed expectations. He cleared his throat and looked the Prime Minister in the eye. “Sir, perhaps you should think of this meeting as updating the head of state on the progress within her country. Her Majesty’s control is limited, that’s true, but after the last government, you want to make sure that all the press can report is a respectful, courteous relationship between the monarch and the Prime Minster.”

Peel clapped Drummond on the back, a little too hard as the younger man had to fight to keep his balance, and then strutted towards the door. “Harriet!” Peel shouted out at the woman who was literally centimetres away, “Holler over to Buck House. The Prime Minister is on his way and wants to speak to Young Queen Vic!”


	3. The Drop-In

It was another day in the palace and Alfred had just returned from a glorious ride. Making his way down the hallway, he suddenly heard a loud, high-pitched squeal, which sounded like a chorus of mice shouting his name.

“Alfred!” the noise appeared again behind him. He turned around, half expecting the cast of ‘Ratatouille’ to meet him. Instead, waddling down the corridor with one lime green platform heel on her foot, was Wilhelmina Coke, one of the most notorious aristocrats in the country. Currently, however, she looked like a Mardi Gras Cinderella.

Good Morning, Willie,” he called out, trying to edge slightly further down the corridor. His pursuer was still stuttering her way towards him though. She was a lovely girl and a dear friend, Alfred thought, but he had started this day calmly and with his mind clear, and he hoped it would stay that way.

“Oh, Alfred! Are you coming to the polo today? I’m just leaving now, and we can share a car,” Willie said, finally arriving in front of him. The result was spectacular. In addition to her dubious choice of footwear, she was wearing a dress that appeared to be made from multicoloured Quality Street wrappers. His eyes were automatically drawn to the fascinator perched on her head. Up close, he could see that it was modelled to depict the Gherkin building, the famous London landmark. However, Alfred slightly winced at the fact that from a little distance away it’s unfortunate shaping meant that perhaps it was a little too befitting Willie’s name.

“No, I’m afraid I must work at the palace today,“ he replied. Now she was closer, he could see that she was wearing second shoe, it was just made of entirely transparent material.

“Oh no, what a shame! I hear all the press will be there and covering the event. There’s going to be a host of stars: George Merson, Taylor Paul, Florence Farr,” Willie started listing, excited at the prospect of being in the company of Hollywood elite. “Do you think I’ll get featured?” she squealed happily, as she took hold of his hand and squeezed.

“I have no doubt about it, darling girl,” he said, with affection. Willie didn’t seem to mind what people thought about her and that was something he genuinely admired. It was also something he envied; he often worried about people’s perceptions, erring on the side of caution to meet expectations.

“Well, I shall be off,” she said, letting go of his hand and tottering off down towards the door. “Don’t work too hard, Alfred! You need your play as well!”

Alfred smiled at her retreating form and went back to finding the Royal couple.

 

Two days ago, the election result came in and the country was in disbelief. Robert Peel was an unknown entity; a working-class man, who came out of nowhere a few years ago, and was now poised to take the highest office in the land. Alfred had never met him, but from the little he had seen of the televised debates, the new Prime Minister seemed like a rather disgruntled but enthusiastic Schnauzer. He was obviously passionate about his causes, but when articulating his point of view, he tended to go off what was clearly a carefully constructed script. How on earth had be ever been elected a member of parliament, let alone win a general election?

Since the initial shock, Queen Victoria had been telling everyone who listened that he was not a good choice. Everyone in Buckingham Palace, from the aristocracy to the kitchen staff, had been inflicted to a long rant from Her Majesty about Peel’s inability to be Prime Minister. Indeed, the young kitchen pot washer was certainly given quite the fright when he turned around from the sink to come face to face with the Queen of England, asking him how he voted in the election.

Thankfully, Albert had taken Victoria aside and explained to her that perhaps she should let the staff get on with their duties, rather than appear by their side dressed in a couture ball gown and questioning their political affiliation. In fact, the Prince seemed to be the only person in the palace who was optimistic about Peel’s victory. He felt the politician was ‘open to new ideas’. Alfred assumed that would mean Albert would turn up at Downing Street, blueprints in arm, suggesting ideas for a new security system before long.

So, you could say that the new government wasn’t off to the best start. They were all waiting for the call from Downing Street, giving notice of their impending visit. They waited. Then waited some more. On the second day, Victoria could stand it no longer and announced she was going for a ride on Frieda, her favourite mare, and if the Prime Minister turned up then the staff should inform him that he would have to run after her horse to gain her permission to form a government. However, when the Queen returned later, it was to the news that Peel still had not been in contact. Victoria was furious.

“Is this a coup, Alfred?” she asked, looking towards the window as if to expect a baying crowd waving pitchforks. “Are they planning on dragging me out of the palace, putting me on a spike and then cutting off my head?”

“No, Your Majesty, I’m sure that won’t happen. They would probably cut off your head before putting it on a spike. Far less mess, but much more effective,” Alfred responded, earning a glare from the Queen.

“This is not funny, Alfred! I saw them on the news this morning, moving into Downing Street. When I became Queen, barely a few hours passed before the Prime Minister came to see me. Where has the respect for the crown gone? They’re trying to phase me out!”

 

If Victoria was irate yesterday, then this morning she practically had steam pouring out her ears. When Alfred had left Willie, he quietly entered the drawing room to find the Queen angrily staring at an Elizabeth sponge cake, as if it were responsible for keeping the Prime Minister away, and furiously tapping a pastry knife against the stand. He noticed that she had one of her smaller tiaras perched on her head, almost as a confirmation to herself that she was indeed the monarch, as if Peel was simply not sure who to ask permission from. One more day of this, Alfred thought, and she’ll dig out her great grandma’s golden jubilee coach, ride it to Piccadilly Circus and stand on top of it wearing every single crown jewel that currently sat in the Tower of London.

“It’s day three, Albert. I might as well pack up my things now and move into one of those high-rise flats,” Victoria said, directing the comment towards her husband. The Prince was currently on his hands and knees underneath the side table, fiddling with the wires of an Amazon Echo he was trying to install. He was hoping to set it up to work throughout the whole palace, but so far even just the one room was availing him. 

“Clearly, I’m not at all important to this government,” the Queen continued, “This would have never happened with Lord M,” she stated, side glancing at her husband.

Alfred grimaced slightly at the term of endearment. A few years ago, not long into her reign and before her marriage to Albert, Victoria had taken a state visit to Australia, accompanied by the then Prime Minister, William Lamb. When in the south of the country, they were both so welcomed by the locals and so joyfully bustling around the capital of the state, that Lamb was given the nickname ‘Lord Melbourne’ by the people. Victoria found this delightful and insisted in continuing with the moniker. 

Albert had now stopped fiddling with the wires. Alfred sat down on the sofa, picked up the nearest book, a copy of ‘The Iliad’, opened it and lifted it so it was covering his face. He hoped that he wouldn’t get caught in the middle of a domestic. His day had started so well, but was currently submerging into farce, a not uncommon experience.

“Perhaps you should go to Peel, Mein Liebe, instead of having Prime Minsters run after you. Show him that the Palace will not be ignored,” the Prince said, and Alfred could tell without looking it was through gritted teeth. “Alexa, play Bach concertos.”

With no response from his wife or his machine, Albert returned to adjusting his wires. Victoria huffed down on the sofa, next to Alfred. He felt like a gazelle caught in the eye of a lioness.

“Oh, Alfred! What is one to do? It’s like the country doesn’t even want a Queen anymore!”

Before Alfred could think of a sudden reason he needed to leave and avoid answering that loaded comment, the sound of ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ by the band Queen came booming out around the room. Albert jumped up in delight, before slowly sitting back down, befuddled at how his project had started working.

Victoria was less impressed, “For goodness sake, Albert! Leave your toy alone! It’s not working properly, and you can’t fix it!”

There would have been an awkward silence that filled the room, with both the Queen and her husband staring each other out, had it not been for Freddie Mercury’s voice belting out ‘’Are you happy, are you satisfied?” and the lyrics booming off the walls. Finally, the Prince pulled the wire out of the speaker, descending the room into quiet and walking out, slamming the door as he went. Alfred was now left with a woman to cheer up, who was suffering in both life and love. He now wished he had spent longer talking to Willie; sweet-wrapper dress, phallic head-wear and all.

“Your Majesty,” he said softly, “The public love you, they love Albert. Think about all the support you got at the wedding.” Alfred gently patted her hand, before calculating the time and distance it would take to get to the door. Perhaps he could make it out before she clawed him back in. He did receive a bronze medal for 100m when he was at prep school.

The option of speedily trying to leap over an ottoman never came, as there was a quick knock on the door before Penge, the household butler, entered.

“Ma’am, the Prime Minister is here to see you,” he announced.

Victoria stood up suddenly, “Now? But he is supposed to call ahead!”

Penge cleared his throat, “Well, we received a telephone call approximately two minutes before he arrived, Ma’am. We were just on our way to inform you.”

The Queen stuttered around the room, before picking up a silver tea tray, thrusting it into Alfred’s hands and motioning for him to hold it up so she could adjust her crown in the reflection. “Right Penge, I’m ready. Although it would serve him right if I made him sit outside and wait for three days. Send him in.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Penge replied, backing towards the door. “What should I do with the boy?”

Crinkling up her nose, Victoria replied, “Boy? What boy?”

“A young gentleman has accompanied the Prime Minister, Ma’am. He seems to want to join your meeting.”

“Well, that is unheard of! No, he must wait outside,” she exclaimed, “Alfred, go occupy the boy.”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am?” Alfred spluttered.

“Go entertain him while I speak to Peel,” she repeated, now taking Alfred by the elbow and forcibly dragging him towards the door, signalling for Penge to stay where he was. “And send in the Prime Minister.”

With that, Victoria opened the door and gave him a small, but powerful shove out. Alfred didn’t have time to wonder how someone so small had the strength of a rhinoceros, because he suddenly found himself stumbling, unable to break his fall due to still holding a silver tea tray. Two warm hands gently cupped his shoulders, keeping him upright.

Looking up apologetically, he found himself staring at the most glorious brown eyes he had ever seen.


	4. Six Meetings Before Lunch

“Where’s the bloody door? I tell you what Drummond, if we’re ever under attack, we should hole up in here. They’d never be able to get to us!”

Drummond opened his mouth to try and ask Robert Peel as to what the Prime Minister and his political director would be under attack from, but he thought better of it. One problem at a time, he told himself. And the rather sizable problem they were currently tasked with dealing with was trying to get into Buckingham Palace.

“Sir,” he called out to Peel, who was currently moving around the shrubs, as if to locate a secret passageway into the palace. “I really think it would have been wise to let the car take us all the way into the palace. That was procedure.”

“Nonsense, boy,” Peel said, waving his hand about to dismiss the idea. He currently had his foot wedged in a plant pot, so his gesticulating was sending him quite off balance. “We need to show them we’re strong from the start. What better way than to stride purposefully up to the door and show them we mean business.”

Showing up with half a bag of compost staining their trouser legs, probably wouldn’t convey an air of authority, Drummond thought. While Peel continued to try and will himself into the palace, the younger man noticed a guard nearby and waved him over.

“Good Morning,” Drummond started, trying to look like digging their way in to see the most famous monarch in the world was an everyday occurrence, “I wonder if it’s at all possible to show us into the palace? The new Prime Minister and I have an audience with the Queen.”

The guard looked over Drummond’s shoulder at Peel and pulled a face. He started to gaze around, like he was expecting a film crew to jump out and tell him that he was part of a practical joke, where he had to be convinced that a crazy man loitering in the dirt was actually holding the highest office in the land. Luckily though, he must have recognised the Prime Minister from television as he reluctantly nodded his head and motioned for them to follow.

Throwing open a door that was, as it turns out, relatively easy to find, the guard led them into a majestic hallway, ordained with stunning pieces of art. Drummond started to feel overwhelmed as he looked to his left at a beautiful sculpture of a male figure standing tall and proud. He was not au fait with art, but he was very taken with it. Glancing back, he noticed the Prime Minister was not quite as awestruck, currently wiping his feet on a beautifully, hand woven rug.

Ahead of them, they could see another man starting to make his way up a vast staircase. The guard walked a little faster and then called out, “Excuse me, Mr Penge, there are some visitors for the Queen.”

Halting in his steps, the older gentleman looked round curiously, before gliding down to where they stood. He looked curiously at Drummond, before turning his attention to the Peel. He blew out a long sigh, before stating, “Mr Prime Minister, the Queen has been expecting you. How convenient of you to turn up at a completely different entrance than you were due at. Follow me, please.”

As they ascended the ornate staircase, Drummond couldn’t help to feel a little nervous. He was worried about this meeting and wanted to keep his eye on the Prime Minister. They had gone over points of discussion with the Queen, but unless Peel had anything written down, it may have entered in one ear and out the other.

“I’m, sorry, Mr Penge, I just wanted to confirm that we are both here to see the Queen.” Drummond asked, trying to keep his voice calm and authoritative.

The butler stopped so suddenly that Peel almost tripped into him and had to save his balance by clinging on to a china vase, delicately resting on the side, before righting himself. Penge spun around so slowly, it was as if Drummond had suggested kidnapping the Queen and retiring with her to a desert island.

“I have worked at the palace for thirty-two years, Sir. I’m afraid the Prime Minister’s audience with the Queen is a private one,” he exclaimed, horrified at even the suggestion of broken protocol.

Drummond was never one to give in easily though. His determined streak had got him in trouble in the past, but it had also helped him, “It is the Queen’s decision though, surely? Perhaps you could ask her?”

Penge was now looking at him like he was an alien. While still glaring, he took out his handkerchief, gave a swift wipe of the now wonky vase, before quickly turning on his heel and proceeding on. Drummond wasn’t sure whether the lack of response was a positive thing or if he was now going to be led to a dungeon to spend the rest of his days, for even the suggestion of a commoner like him being in the presence of Her Majesty. 

Finally, they reached a pale, cream door, which was adorned with delicate gold detail. Penge turned towards them, “If you would wait here, please.” Then he knocked briskly, before entering and shutting the door firmly behind him. Peel was standing with his hands in his now dust, crisp and soil covered suit pockets, gazing up at the high ceiling, before giving a whistle with his teeth, “Blimey Drummond, it’s a good job Mrs Peel isn’t here, she’d be wanting this in our two bedroom semi!”

Drummond sighed ever so slightly at the fact that he still had to remind Peel that his official place of residence was Downing Street, not a cul-de-sac in the suburbs. He was certain that once Mrs Peel got her claws into Number 10, it would look however she pleased. Most likely a cross between Buckingham Palace, an upscale slaughter house and a brothel.

Before Drummond could remind Peel that he was Prime Minister and after this meeting he was to go to Downing Street, not back home to take part in a five aside darts tournament, the door Penge had disappeared behind opened quickly. It was not, however, the cranky butler that appeared through the door. In a quick flash, Drummond noticed another figure fly through the opening, heading straight for him. 

He didn’t have time to think, so it was his reflexes that moved his hands to the shoulders of the figure, as it came stumbling his way. The figure stopped and looked up at him and Drummond met a pair of blue eyes surrounded by a sea of eyelashes.

“Hi,” he said, in little more of a whisper, his hands still bracing this man’s shoulders. He was young, maybe a little older than Drummond himself, with thick, golden blonde hair. And those eyes.

The other man either didn’t hear the greeting or didn’t react to it, as he was still staring right at Drummond. It was perhaps no more than ten seconds, but it felt longer. It felt like this man was in a spell; that he’d been enchanted to an awaken sleep by an evil queen. Perhaps this gentleman was alarmed that this stranger had walked into the palace and was now accosting him in the hallway. He quickly removed his hands and set them back by his sides.

Now he was standing back a little, he could get a better look at the man. He didn’t look like one of the staff. Penge’s uniform was impeccable, where as this man was dressed casually in tan jodhpurs, and a loose, wide neck white shirt. He was wearing riding boots with just a little staining of mud. Most surprisingly though, he was grasping onto a silver tea tray.

Blonde Sleeping Beauty seemed to suddenly regain his composure, and turned towards Peel, “Prime Minister,” he said, and Drummond almost thought he could hear a shake in the rich, pure voice, “Her Majesty is ready to see you now. You may enter…alone.”

The last line was obviously aimed at Drummond. He was pleasantly surprised that Penge even asked the Queen if he could attend. Peel, ever unsubtle, walked up to Blonde Sleeping Beauty and clapped him on the shoulder, before booming out “Steady as she goes, lad!” and entering the room with a sweeping gusto.

Drummond now found himself and the other man alone in the corridor, while Peel was quite possibly committing treason, just on the other side of the door. He has warned the Prime Minister to wait until the Queen extends her hand, before gently shaking it. He now had images of him grabbing her Majesty in a bear hug, lifting her off the ground and crushing her ribcage.

While Drummond was lost in his fearful nightmares of the Prime Minister accidently groping the head of state, he suddenly noticed that Blonde Beauty (he’d seemed to have lost the ‘sleeping’ for now), was now holding the tea tray in one hand and extending the other towards him. “Alfred…Major…Paget,” he stumbled, before taking a breath, “Major Alfred Paget. I am Chief Equerry to the Royal family. A pleasure to meet your acquaintance.”

Drummond slowly joined his hand and eyes with Alfred’s, “Drummond…Edward…Mister,” he mimicked, letting a smile creep over his face, “I’m Robert Peel’s political director. Good to meet you.” He didn’t feel his greeting had the same aplomb, but then he was just a boy from a modest neighbourhood. He didn’t have titles and a cushy job with royalty.

He took back his hand. He felt it tingle a little, but put that thought at the back of his mind. His legs were feeling slightly light, he was sure from spending twenty minutes trekking around the palace gardens with the Prime Minister this morning, and looked around the corridor for a chair to sit on. Not being able to find one, he backed against the wall, before sliding down it. He leaned back, with his legs out in front of him, bent at the knee and started to fish through his pockets for his phone. 

Looking above him, he noticed Alfred staring at him, mouth slightly open, as if something unexpected had happened. Suddenly, a small smile appeared on his lips and he exhaled a little huff of a laugh. He looked around and placed the tea tray on the side table and proceeded to lower himself to the ground on the wall opposite Drummond, mirroring his stance.

Drummond felt that it was the polite thing to make conversation with the other man, but his phone heavy in his hand, he knew he should use this time for completing some work. He held it up with a small smile at Alfred, as an apology and explanation, then started to open up his ever-growing list of emails. He managed to forward some of them to Harriet, confident in the knowledge that she could handle some of the tasks. His phone had been glitching over the last few months, but he didn’t have the time or energy to switch to another one at the moment. He was too set in his ways.

He lifted his eyes and looked at Alfred, who seemed to quickly turn his head to gaze at a rather ugly painting. He seemed quite content to sit there while Drummond worked. There was a relaxed look on his face, like he relished the quiet calm. It made Drummond feel like he was in a little bubble with him, his phone and emails slowly fading away. He never used to like the stillness; it just wasn’t him, he has to keep moving. But today it made him feel relaxed.

Unexpectedly, the door to the drawing room opened and Penge stepped out, looking upon the two men perched on the floor, with such a face of horror that it drew another small chuckle from Alfred. Drummond met his eyes and noticed how they twinkled with glee.

Penge made his way over to Drummond, and he could now see he was holding a napkin. He held it out for the him to take, “Compliments from Her Majesty. Please try not to get crumbs on the eighteenth-century rug you are currently loitering on.” Drummond took the package, it barely leaving the other man’s hand before Penge started trotting off down the hallway muttering about the lost days of protocol.

Alfred had shifted slightly, looking up over his nose to try and catch a glimpse of what he held in his hand. Drummond looked down at the bright, red napkin. He carefully peeled back the top to reveal a perfectly cut slice of cake. He lifted it up to show Alfred, “Hungry?” he asked.

Alfred grabbed the silver tray from the side and with two steps was standing next to where Drummond was still sitting. He seemed to hesitate for just a moment before sitting down next to the other man. He set the tray down, so it was halfway on both their laps. Then he took the napkin from Drummond’s hand and set it down between them.

Now that he was sitting so close, Drummond was able to properly study the other man. He was looking just a little down on him, so he was perhaps not as tall as Drummond was. He noticed the smooth skin on his hand leading up to a dusting of hair on his arms. He smelled earthy, like the outdoors, with just a tinge of vanilla and tobacco. It reminded Drummond of a burst of warmth on a cold winter night.

He suddenly realised that Alfred was waiting for him to take the first bit of cake. He broke off a corner and put it to his lips. It was amazing. The sharp tang of the jam perfectly contrasted with the creamy icing and softness of the sponge. He opened his eyes wide at Alfred to convey his pleasure. This seemed to entice the other man to tuck into the cake with a grin.

They both sat there for a few minutes pulling off bits of cake, grinning like two small boys who had raided the biscuit tin. He suspected that Penge would not be pleased, as crumbs were flying everywhere, landing on the rug. Alfred didn’t seem to mind though, so Drummond put it out of his head. Currently, occupying his mind was the small bit of ivory icing sitting at the corner of Alfred’s mouth.

Drummond stuck out his own tongue to the edge of his own lips, as if the icing was on his own mouth. A flash jumped in his head and a sudden desire to lean forward and gently remove the sweet crumbs off the other man’s cheek with a caressing lick. Before he could really consider the image, Alfred had lifted up his hand to wipe his own mouth and the temptation was removed.

“It’s really good cake,” Drummond said, thinking it best to speak before his rebellious mind started to wander any further.

Alfred nodded, while still swallowing the remainder of his portion, “You’ll have to tell Her Majesty. She made it, you know?”

Almost chocking on his remaining crumbs, he looked at the other man in shock, “The Queen made this cake? Doesn’t she have cooks and pastry chefs to do that for her?”  
“Yes, she does, but she likes to challenge herself, so every Tuesday morning, when she is able, she spends a few hours in the kitchen with the head chef, making a new flavour of cake. She then serves it up to visitors or any company.”

Drummond was impressed. They’d all seen the young Queen Victoria grow up in the public eye, looking like a perfect little porcelain doll, never having the expectation of raising a fingernail. “Well she’s very good at it.”

Alfred leaned a little closer, enough to make Drummond’s heart raise slightly and automatically lean in closer too, as if giving in to a magnetic force, “Actually she isn’t very good at all. There’s always something wrong. In the past, she’s used salt instead of sugar, curdled the eggs, replaced butter with goose fat and turned the oven up so high, the entire lower building had to be evacuated for three hours. Every single one of her cakes has ended up in the bin.”

Furrowing his brow in confusion, Drummond pointed to the remaining crumbs on the tray and asked, “Then how are we eating a perfectly nice cake?”

“Mr Francatelli, the chef, makes an exact replica of whatever the Queen is making. He swaps it in place of hers every week,” Alfred replied with a chuckle.

“Her Majesty doesn’t realise?”

“No,” Alfred continued, “She doesn’t have a clue. The only people that know are Mr Francatelli, one of the maids and myself. And now you, of course.” He said the last part with a wry smile, as if wracking his brain as to why he had let out a well-guarded royal secret to someone he had only met thirty minutes before.

Drummond smiled back, a silence again filling the air as their eyes met. It wasn’t the same as when they were eating the cake though. This felt viscous and almost deafening in its conspicuousness. Abruptly, the drawing room door swung open. Upon the intrusion into their moment, Drummond leapt up. When he heard the silver tea tray clanging onto the floor and bouncing its way into the wall, he realised that Alfred must have jumped up too. Almost breathless, he looked at the other man, who was also noticeable exhaling, a slight creep of blush flattering his cheeks.

“…So, he jumped out of bed and screamed, ‘But I thought you were a nun!” Peel’s voice came ringing out of the doorway, followed by his loud cackling laugh. His belly was still shaking as he appeared in the hallway, wiping tears of laughter out of his eyes.

“No, I can’t say I have heard that joke before, Mr Peel,” a small sound answered, and Drummond had to look around the Prime Minister to see the Queen, bracing herself against the doorway, lips pursed. When Peel had moved further into the hallway, she took in the scene before her, eyes resting on the floor, “Alfred, could you explain to me why Grandmama’s antique, sterling silver tea tray is currently face down on the rug?”

Alfred quickly bent down to retrieve the offending item, rising to stand up straight, nodding his apologies to the Queen.

“Right then, Your Majesty Victoria,” Peel started, turning towards the Queen, grasping her hand and shaking it vigorously. He turned towards Drummond while he was doing so, as if to impress him with his etiquette. “I’m glad we could have a good chat and find some common ground. Firm friends now, eh?”

Victoria seemed to take a moment to consider her response, “Yes. Quite. Well unfortunately the media are still reporting a rift due to your tardy response, Prime Minister. I’m not so sure that can be fixed so rapidly.”

“A joint appearance,” Drummond interjected.

All three sets of eyes turned towards him, as if he had suddenly popped into the space from nowhere. The Queen especially, was gazing at him like he had two heads. “What are you?” she asked, like he was an unpleasant Christmas present she had just received.

“Oh this here, is Drummond,“ Peel explained, “He’s my…what are you, lad?”

“Your political director, Sir.” Drummond said, bowing at the Queen.

Victoria suddenly nodded in recognition, “Oh yes, I’ve seen you on some of those BBC shows during the election.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Drummond continued, “If I may, I believe a joint appearance, at maybe a charitable benefit, may help the media appearance of your relationship with the Prime Minister,” he said, before some reason turning around and looking at Alfred. He wasn’t sure why, he just found looking at him a comfort.

Alfred met his gaze and seemed to find some meaning there. He stepped forward and said, “Indeed, Your Majesty, I think it is an excellent idea. Not only will give a more positive spin on your relationship with Mr Peel, but a good opportunity to make more connections with the community. You were speaking about that recently.”

Alfred looked back at Drummond as if to seek his approval for the comments. Drummond gave him a reassuring smile, before turning back to the Queen.

Victoria squinted her eyes, “Yes, well I suppose that is a rather sensible suggestion, Mr Drummond. It is far too late to be discussing it this week, of course. I’m sure the Prime Minister has much to get on with away from the palace. Think of some suitable suggestions and we shall discuss them next week.”

With that, Victoria turned about face and went back into the drawing room. Drummond could have sworn he heard a lock being turned and some furniture being pushed up against the door.

“See Drummond, you were worrying over nothing,” Peel said, “Like two peas in a pod, me and the Queen are!” he continued making his way up the wrong hallway, before deciding against it and walking back the correct way. “Come on lad, we’ve got a country to run!”

Drummond turned towards Alfred. It seemed silly to bow, though he had long realised that he was in the presence of a member of the Royal family. Once you’ve sat on an eighteenth century rug and eaten cake with a man, formalities seemed to take a back seat. “It was nice to meet you, Alfred.”

Alfred looked him in the eyes, his fingers still fiddling with the silver tea tray. “You too, Drummond. I hope to see you again. I’m sure you’ll be far to busy to accompany the Prime Minister every week.”

Drummond knew he was probably right. He did have a country to make it look like Peel ran. However, today was the calmest he had felt in a long time and he knew it had something to do with the other man, “No, I can’t think of a more better use of my time. It’s important that the relationships between the government and the palace grow.”

Before Alfred could respond, there was a shriek and a crash behind the drawing room door, as simultaneously down the corridor, Peel hollered, “Come on, son, get a move on, before they dip you in gold, give you a polish and set you up on a plinth in the ballroom!” 

Drummond looked at Alfred, and with a nod they both set towards their superiors. As they passed each other, their arms gently brushed. Drummond felt the tingle in his arm again. It didn’t seem to fade this time though. It remained all the way out the palace, during the car ride and was still lingering when they returned back to Downing Street. He also noticed the taste of vanilla that didn’t seem to disappear from his tongue.


	5. The War at Home

Alfred stood looking down the hallway at Drummond’s retreating form, quickly jogging up to join the Prime Minister. He kept his eyes fixed, mesmerised really, until the other man had left his field of vision. Another loud crash from the room behind him, shook him out of his daydream and plonked him very firmly back in reality.

Tentatively, he approached the drawing room door and gave a light knock. “Your Majesty,” he softly called out. There was a short pause where he briefly wondered whether Victoria had booted open the window, joined together a few throw blankets and shimmed down the front of the palace.

“Who is it?” returned a high-pitched voice, filled with sniffs and snot. Alfred gave a little sigh. Victoria had known Alfred her entire life, how was it possible that she didn’t recognise his voice or realise that he was the only person in this damn house that would knock and wait before entering. He thought back to a slightly embarrassing incident, where one of the maids had flown into his private chambers to bring breakfast, without knocking. The eggs went flying and he was sure there was still a sausage stain on the ceiling.

“It’s Alfred, Ma’am,” he said in a soft sing-song voice, “Your loving cousin that you spoke to three minutes ago?” Again, there was no sound inside the room. It was possible that Victoria had gone to drag out the family tree book, just to check that Alfred was indeed a relative, and he hadn’t just been lying to her for over twenty years, having manipulated his way into the palace as an over-achieving toddler, armed with just a teddy bear and a plan to oust the royal family. 

Suddenly, he could hear the screeching and scraping of something being dragged along the floor. Alfred wasn’t entirely sure why the Queen felt it necessary to barricade up the door. Frankly, if Robert Peel wanted to get in, he didn’t doubt that the man could have unknowingly used a 15th century iron statue to boost his way into the room. He heard the click of the lock and the door open just a fraction, and a blotchy, red-framed, blue eye appeared at the opening. 

Seemingly satisfied that Alfred was who he claimed to be, she opened the door fully before retreating into the room. Alfred stepped inside, picking up cushions and various other items that had appeared to have been thrown around the room in temper. He looked over at Victoria, who was now laying face down on the couch, her crown hanging on to her head by a thread, sobbing into the last remaining untouched cushion in the room.

Alfred stepped over to the couch, perched on the nearby coffee table and patted the Queen gently on the shoulder. “So, how did your conversation with the Prime Minister go?” he asked cautiously, as if the demolition of the room wasn’t an answer itself.

Victoria lifted her head off the cushion and glared at Alfred, “Oh, it was absolutely perfect,” she replied, with more than a hint of sarcasm, “Because what I really want is for that brainless oaf to get us both thrown out of leadership, dragged through London, and set alight in the middle of Hyde Park by the end of the week.” With that she face-planted back into the sofa with a growl of frustration.

Alfred huffed out a sigh, hoping the monarch would hear and realise that burning at the stake wasn’t a punishment that was currently used. It would be far too damaging for the environment. “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad, Your Majesty,” he said to her forcefully, trying to convey that one meeting probably wouldn’t be the end of the republic, “You’ve met him now and had a conversation. It’s only once a week that you have to see him. It’s his job to keep you updated on the state of the nation. You don’t have to work with him.”

Victoria slightly lifted her head, so Alfred could see a few eyelashes, as well as the mascara stains on the embroidered cushion. “I suppose I’ll just have to put up with it. I used to so enjoy my weekly meetings with the Prime Minister. How did you get on with the boy?”

“Mr Drummond, Ma’am,” Alfred said, hoping that Victoria would eventually learn his name and not keep on referring to him as ‘boy’, like he had been rented out for the day. “I think he will be very amiable to work with. He seems not to have the Prime Minister’s…overzealous nature.”

“Oh, good,” Victoria replied, “Well I suppose that’s one thing. As long as he doesn’t turn up every week. I felt quite on the backfoot.”

Hearing this, Alfred felt he should reassure the Queen somewhat. He wasn’t quite sure how one young man could dent the confidence of a head of state, who was sitting in a palace with a whole troop of staff, surrounded by trained guards. He also didn’t want to Drummond to be discouraged from returning to the palace. “He very much enjoyed your cake, Your Majesty.”

Hearing this, Victoria sat up and rested her head on her elbows, “Really?” she exclaimed, a little smile appearing at her mouth.

Alfred nodded his head enthusiastically, “Yes, Ma’am,” he replied, “He couldn’t quite believe how talented you were.”

The grin spread across the Queen’s face. “Well, then,” she said, pulling her self up to sit around on the sofa, “Maybe the boy can come again. I wouldn’t want to deny him the banoffee sponge I’m gong to make next week.”

“Of course, Ma’am,” Alfred replied, making a note to warn Mr Francatelli that the Queen may try and dip unpeeled bananas in caramel. Although, he was starting to look forward to ‘Cremate the Cake’ days now that he would see Drummond again.

There was just something about him. If he thought back, he could remember the warm hands that had gripped his shoulders. The way he could see him licking icing off his lips out the corner of his eye, sending a spark down his body, right through to his toes. He didn’t know what gave him the courage to sit down next to Drummond, who clearly wanted to work, let alone what made him sit so close to someone he had just met. It seemed right though, and Alfred felt a sense of freedom, like a veil had lifted. He was so used to spending day after day the same way; encouraging the Queen that she was doing a good job, listening for hours upon end to Albert explain his newest idea or reviewing Wilhelmina’s fashion choices. The monotony was slowly chipping away at him, as much as he loved and adored the people he worked with. They were his family. He just didn’t want them to be his life.

Before he could get deeper into his daydream about Drummond’s lips, the door flew open again. “Victoria!” rang a shrill, forceful voice, “Someone has been treading all over the begonias in the palace gardens! Was it your husband with one of his retched experiments again?!”

In the doorway, stood the Duchess of Buccleuch; a formidable force who couldn’t be easily charmed, molly coddled or placated. Alfred had been on the end of her sharp tone on more than one occasion and slowly got up to sit down on one of the armchairs, fearful that he was about to face a thirty-minute lecture about how a royal, let alone a military man like himself, should never to be seen propped up on a table like a floral centrepiece. 

Thankfully though, the Duchess’ attention seemed to be fully on the state of the palace and the grounds. “Mud! Mud in the entrance hall, I saw as I was coming in. Not only that, but there is food scattered about on a very expensive rug outside and one of your servants has left a sterling silver tea tray on the side, for anyone to pick up and run off with! Tell me, Your Majesty, are you running a palace or a community centre?” she said, sneering at even the possibility that someone without royal blood had stepped foot in the building.

On these occasions, Alfred noticed that Victoria placated the elder lady as best as possible, but her mood today seemed to bypass that option, “Oh for heaven’s sake, Duchess. I have been meeting with the Prime Minister, I am the Queen of this country, not the chambermaid! If you want the palace hall cleaning, then ring the staff yourself!”

The Duchess started going red in the face and opened her mouth to reply to Victoria. As Alfred was wondering whether he should now duck behind the armchair (a sight that the Duchess would say was definitely not befitting a royal or a military man), the door to the room opened again and in walked Prince Albert, screw driver in hand.

“Oh, I didn’t realise the room would be so occupied,” he said, barely looking at the inhabitants. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just get to work.” With that, he went back over to his speaker system and started looking around for something he could unscrew.

The Duchess scoffed, “Well, this really is something else. The Prince, husband of the Queen, is now working as a handy man. Albert, have you had your toolbox in my bush?”

Alfred was sure that the Chief Equerry toppling backwards out of a chair would have probably have caused a comment from the Duchess at that moment, had Victoria not taken the opportunity to quickly defend her husband. “Duchess,” she responded, with as harsh a tone as Alfred had ever heard coming from the petite monarch, “Albert is a thoughtful, intelligent man who cares deeply about this household and the advancement of this country. You shall not speak to him like that!”

While the prince gave a warm and forgiving smile towards his wife, the Duchess had started to go more of a dark beetroot colour in the face and looked ready to target her anger at Victoria, when a new voice appeared at the door.

“Alfred?” Wilhelmina’s voice piercingly rang out, taking sight of the room in front of her, “Has anyone seen Alfred? I was told he was up here…oh, there you are, dear. Why are you on the floor?”

He was saved from responding to her question by the booming voice of the Duchess, who had a new target for her displeasure. “Wilhelmina, what on earth are you wearing?!”

Willie smiled and adjusted her fascinator, which instead of looking like a London landmark, was now sloped over like the leaning tower of penis. “It’s haute couture, Aunty,” she replied, beaming proudly, “I had it especially designed just for me, by Dick Tracy himself.”

“Philip Treacy,” Alfred muttered as he returned the chair back to its original state and sat back down, although he was certain that no one else was paying him a blind bit of notice.

“Well, it looks shocking,” the Duchess replied, almost snarling at the headwear, as if it were responsible for the downfall of the British monarchy. “Please don’t tell me you went out in public looking like that, for all the world to see!”

“I think you look very nice, Willie,” interjected Prince Albert, now holding his screwdriver like it was a magic wand and tapping it against the speaker system, as if an enchantment would cause it to work. “Your hat has impressive construction and girth. A man, like myself, can appreciate such a structure.”

The Duchess huffed and now turned towards the Queen’s husband, like a bull catching a glint of a red flag from its eye. “Well, the begonia plant, given to me by the Prime Minister of Canada, Tristan Tredinashoe himself, had a wonderful structure before you trampled all over it!”

“Justin Trudeau,” Alfred muttered again, all the while wondering if his presence in this room was really needed. He had been trying to leave for a few hours now, but just seemed to be getting dragged back in to the madness. He slowly started to edge his way to the wall, looking for a clear path to the door, as the four other voices in the room descended into chaos.

“Duchess, I asked you to apologise once to Albert…” Victoria began, before she was soon cut off.  
“The begonias were a thing of beauty….”  
“…well I think my hat is beautiful, even Alfred said…”  
“…I haven’t been near the gardens today….”  
“…who else would tread mud through the halls…”  
“...I think even Alfred would agree with me about the apology…”  
“…Well let’s ask him shall we, Victoria…”

“Alfred!” shouted all four voices at once. 

He had almost got there. His hand was resting on the door handle, poised to turn it and make his escape. He had only needed a few seconds longer. Alfred turned around trying to think of a comment that would calm them all down. Suddenly, ‘Victoria’ by The Kinks roared through the speaker system, not just in the room, but listening closely, he could hear it outside the doors. Prince Albert looked from the speaker to the screwdriver in his hand, seemingly convinced that it actually was a magic wand and he’d conjured up music with it.

“What is this absolute racket?” The Duchess complained, looking horrified as the line ‘Sex was bad, called obscene…’ rang out around the palace. “I think I’ve had quite enough of this nonsense for one day. I am retiring for a nap, if your husband can stop this atrocious sound, Victoria.”

She breezed past Alfred, giving him a look up-and-down, as if she’d be hard pressed to choose between who looked less royal in the room. He was still dressed in his riding clothes, but now looking closer at Willie, it appeared that she now really was only wearing one shoe. Giving a sigh that could cause the building to shake, if the ornaments weren’t already wobbling due to the speaker vibrations, the Duchess left the room and slammed the door behind her. Somewhere outside, he swore he heard a tea tray falling to the ground.

“Alfred, do come sit down, I’ve got so much to tell you about the polo!” Willie shouted over the music still blaring out. Victoria gave her husband a pointed look, but held her tongue after remembering the earlier argument. Albert seemed to pick up on his wife’s mood and managed to turn the music off, ensuring that the room was in a (slightly calmer) silence.

Checking his watch, Alfred looked inquisitively at his friend, “You’re back rather early, Willie. Was the polo finished already?”

“No,” she sighed, in reply, “Unfortunately, I had to leave prematurely. My shoe got caught in one of the peg ties of the refreshment tent. They had to call the fire brigade to cut me out of it. Everyone was so kind. They suggested I come home and rest after my ordeal. Oh, but it was such a wonderful day up until then. That’s the sixth time in a row I’ve been, and all the same people are there. GiGi Horton-Fox, Florence Farr, Evelyn Hopkins, Mrs Peel, Candy Theroux, they all want to spend time with me. We are becoming quite the social group! They were all ever so nice last month when that horse headbutted me. Would you like to see my selfies?”

Wilhelmina didn’t wait for an answer and started to search around in her bag for her phone. As she was rustling, out popped an array of sweet wrappers, a tin of tuna and two olives. She squealed a yelp of pleasure, and then pulled out her mobile and started flicking through the pictures. 

Alfred really did believe that Willie had many talents. However, photography wasn’t one of them. He sat back down on the sofa to take a closer look. As she flipped through them, the subjects started to get blurrier and blurrier. Although, he thought in one of them he could make out the headbutting horse, photobombing within the frame, as way of apology. 

“Oh dear,” Willie said forlornly, “Well, at least there was a lot of press there. They’re sure to have photos with me in!”

Reluctantly nodding, Alfred thought that perhaps pictures of firefighters winching you out from beneath a tent, while a horse with a vendetta lingered in the background, may not make for the most positive press photographs.

“Perhaps there is something wrong with your phone, Willie, and that’s why your camera isn’t working?” Albert said, overhearing the conversation. “Would you like me to take a look and see if I can fix it?”

Victoria and Alfred met each other’s eyes. Her look seemed to imply that she was the leader of the country and that as someone of a lower status, he should respond to that comment. Alfred replied to that by raising his eyebrows, as if to point out that she was the one foolish enough to marry him, and surely there was something in their wedding vows about explaining to a spouse that they aren’t as talented as they think they are. This seemed to win out in the end.

“Albert, “Victoria said delicately, “You’ve still got your voice control thingy to fix. Have you figured out what’s wrong with it yet?”

With thoughts of Wilhemina’s phone lost temporarily, he turned back to his contraption, “No!” he said, clearly frustrated. “It turns itself on at the strangest times! Though, I’ve now fixed it up, so it can be heard all over the palace.”

Alfred wasn’t so sure that this was as positive a development as Albert was implying. They had a convoy from India visiting in a few days and he dreaded to think what song might ring out around the palace as they were sitting down to a state dinner.

“How was your meeting with the new Prime Minister, Victoria?” Albert asked, sitting down opposite his wife.

“Oh, it was absolutely awful,” the Queen replied. “I knew it would be! The man was an absolute brute, wasn’t he Alfred?”

“Well,” Alfred began, thinking of how to word his answer in a way that would keep the monarch calm. “He just may take some getting used to, Ma’am.”  
Victoria huffed. “Oh, you are just being too polite,” she said, waving her hand in a dismissive way. “Besides, you were outside with that boy the whole time.” 

Alfred felt his cheeks warm up as three sets of questioning eyes hit his face. Wilhelmina shuffled wonkily towards him and grabbed his hands in hers. “What boy?” she asked breathlessly, as if she’d just listened the most tantalising gossip she’d heard all month. Her face turned into a beaming grin and she gave a squeal that possibly only Victoria’s dogs heard. “Do you finally have a boy, Alfred? This so exciting! Why didn’t you tell me? What’s he like? Does he have any handsome friends I can meet?”

Across the room, Victoria tutted and started shaking her head. “Don’t be so silly, Willie. It was nothing like that. He was the Prime Minister’s something or rather,” she said, laughing off the suggestion. “I made poor Alfred keep him company, while I was being tortured in the meeting. You’ve seen him before, anyway. Do you remember? He was on that politics show during the election. We were watching it while waiting for ‘The Great British Bake Off’ to come on. We chatted while he was talking, and you told me something very interesting about him.”

Alfred’s ears pricked up at Victoria’s last comment. “What was it?” he asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

The Queen didn’t seem to hear his comment and Wilhelmina was literally scratching her head in confusion, causing the monstrosity she was wearing to slip down further. “I don’t know who you mean, Your Majesty,” she replied.

Victoria seemed exasperated even still, her crown sitting almost vertically on her head. They both looked like they had been pulled through the begonias backwards. “Yes, you do!” she exclaimed loudly, “He was a young man, quite insolent. He kept on speaking about poor people,” she said screwing up her nose.

Wilhelmina opened her eyes wide in recognition. “Oh, the blonde man?” she asked.

“No, no, no!” Victoria responded, “This one had brown hair. You told me something about him, that you said you found out and was really interesting. You told me, though for the life of me I can’t remember, and then you said you hoped Paul Hollywood was wearing blue in the episode.”

“Was he Welsh?” Willie asked hopefully, like her and the Queen were playing a rather twisted game of ‘Guess Who’.

Alfred sat back as the two ladies’ conversation went on for quite some time. Wilhelmina didn’t seem to recollect Drummond, and the Queen was getting ever more frustrated by that fact. Maybe if Victoria told Willie how he was tall and lean, but solidly built, looking classically handsome in the suit he was wearing; like a 1940s movie star. Maybe she should mention how the warmth radiated off him and beamed through his smile. Perhaps she should remark that his eyes twinkled through their richness and that tangible energy prickled off him when he got an idea.

Thinking it through, Alfred decided to be silent and not mention any of this. He didn’t think it too wise to show so much interest in the politician. Relationships between the government and the palace were strained, to say the least. He highly doubted the Queen would take kindly to the suggestion that he was fraternising with the enemy. Not that there was anything going on at the moment, of course.

At the moment? Was this something he wanted? Alfred had only met this man once and now in his head, it was so much more. Would someone like Drummond even be interested in him; he could have his pick of relationships surely?

Looking at the scene going on around the room, it didn’t provide him with much hope. Victoria was flailing around, still trying to describe Drummond to Wilhelmina, who was now guessing the most random of celebrities. Prince Albert was beaming happily, while trying to remove the SIM card from Willie’s phone with a Phillips head screwdriver and he could hear Penge in the hall, muttering about mud and crumbs. He was part of this world and he didn’t think it made him much of a catch. He was sure that Drummond was at Downing Street now, doing important work, surrounded by professionals at the top of their field, and not fiving Alfred a second thought.


	6. Constituency of One

“Harriet! Harriet! Grab him by the tail. It’s got its claws right into my - “

“I’m pulling at him, Prime Minister. He’s just anxious. You’ve got to calm down and then he will release his claws. Drummond, stop laughing. You’re not helping!”

Drummond couldn’t help it. The sight of Robert Peel flailing around, screeching like a banshee, trying to push off a cat who currently had its claws dug into the Prime Minister’s groin, was just too much. Normally, he would be so focused on work that he might even be annoyed at the distraction to the day’s schedule. This morning however, had put him in a glorious mood. He felt calm and relaxed. He hadn’t felt like this since months before the election. There was no explanation as to why he felt this way. He’d spent a portion of the morning trying to break into Buckingham Palace, his phone kept on glitching when he was trying to send a mountain load of emails, he’d been snarled at by servants, mocked by guards and sneered at by a queen. The British government was at a standstill and the media were playing up a feud between Victoria and Peel. On top of that, he now had to arrange an event that both leaders could attend happily, without killing each other. Just to add the cherry on top, Larry, the Downing Street cat, had taken such a dislike to his boss, that it was currently trying to claw his balls off. He should, by all accounts, be thoroughly miserable.

It must have been the cake. That little bit of sweetness must have given him a sugar rush and made him feel lighter and less foggy. Drummond thought back to eating the sponge, sitting on the ground with Alfred, like he’d known him for years. He didn’t even stop to think about him being a member of the Royal Family, and how it probably wasn’t appropriate to slump down on the floor in his presence. He was happy it had happened though. It had felt right and natural to sit there next to him.

Drummond knew the perception people had of him was that he only cared about work and his focus was monomaniacally on his career. He’d heard the jokes and the comments for years. There had been people before that he’d tried dating, of course there was. Drummond could never remember initiating it though. It always seemed to be someone confident and uninhibited who pursued him, or he was set up by a friend or acquaintance with someone he found charming, but who he thought didn’t warrant more attention than his work. They all just fizzled out in the end, when he prioritised policy papers over late night dinners, or campaigning over taking a romantic walk by the lake. He was used to people making the decisions about his personal life for him, because it just wasn’t a matter of import for him.

Now though, Alfred was monotonising his thoughts so much since he left the palace, that he couldn’t even concern himself with the fact that Peel might have to take Prime Minister’s Questions next week with a moggy hanging from his genitalia. He wasn’t sure what to do. He’d never got to this bit before, where he had to be proactive with something personal. Work, he could do. He knew how to pursue that aggressively. It was because of his passion for his career that he was in trouble now. He never learned what you do after you think you like somebody; what you do next. Everybody else did, everyone else seemed to know. It was like a lesson he had missed.

He was dragged out of his thoughts when a disagreeable cat was shoved in front of his face, while an equally annoyed PM’s assistant stood there holding it. Apparently, Harriet had been able to extract the cat from Peel, without his help. He took the cat gently in his arms, trying to comfort it the best he could, before it hissed at him and jumped down, escaping quickly out the door. Great, he couldn’t even get a cat to be affectionate towards him when he tried. They would have to track down the angry feline later.  
“We should have the ruddy thing shot!” the Prime Minister said, gently caressing the afflicted area of his body. Drummond really hoped that there wasn’t a photograph with a long lense lurking about anywhere. He could imagine the headlines tomorrow.

“Larry is a Downing Street institution, Sir,” Drummond replied, trying to calm Peel down. “He’s been here for the last three Prime Minister’s time in office. He has over a million followers on Twitter.”

“He’s a bloody cat! How does he manage to twit? I can’t even twit!” the Prime Minister responded, looking genuinely worried that he may have to turn over the running of the country to Larry.

“I think an intern does the tweeting for him, Sir,” Drummond said, holding in a smile, “But you better be off. You have a meeting with Mr Brown about the cabinet appointment.”

Peel seemed to sit up a bit straighter at that. It was as if he realised that he, a human, would be able to achieve more in the meeting than a cat would, and that put him at an advantage. “Well, I suppose I better go off and do my job then, son. Although I don’t mind telling you I had Mrs Peel chew off my ear for an hour about who she thought should get the Home Secretary job. We know best though, boy, don’t we? We’re the ones in the trenches. We’re going to make sure everyone in our country has a fair crack of the whip. I can’t bear to see people suffer, just because they don’t have as many coppers in the pot. You know that lad, don’t you?”

Drummond sent a genuine smile towards the Prime Minister and nodded his head. He may be loud, uncouth and get himself (and his staff) in any number of pickles, but there was a reason that Peel was in this job. Drummond saw it in him. He had a good heart that wanted to help people. They both hated injustice and equalling the playing field was always the priority for both of them. 

As the Prime Minister went out the door, Harriet made her way back into the office. She narrowed her eyes at Drummond before perching on the desk, unwrapping a chicken wrap and passing half to him. “What up with you today?” she asked, a hint of suspicion in her voice.

Drummond looked back at her questioningly. “What? I’m the same as I always am! Is this because I made you extricate household pets from the Prime Minister’s nether regions?”

“No, it’s not just that. Although you do owe me! For that and the time I had to tell him he was wearing two different shoes,” she said glaringly, taking a bite of her lunch. “For one, I had a few emails earlier from you and then nothing. It all stopped until you got back from the palace. Usually I’m inundated by them!”

He opened his mouth to try and defend himself, before Harriet held her hand up, “I’m not having a go! I know it’s only a fraction of the amount you have to get through. I know you hold back and sort things that I’m perfectly capable of doing, to lessen my workload,” she carried on, picking at bit of lettuce, before taking another bite. “It was just unusual that’s all. Also, you’ve barely looked at your phone since you’ve been back. It’s usually superglued to your hand. The last time I saw you without it this much, was when it went missing for a day and it turned out the Prime Minister must have picked it up and carried it around in his pocket!”

“Don’t remind me, please,” Drummond said, only half-jokingly. “I don’t think I was ever so frantic as that day. It’s probably why it’s been freezing so much since then. Peel was most likely sitting on it for most the time! Anyway, I’m trying to use it less now we’re actually in office. I don’t have to chase anyone as much. Let them come to us now we have the power.”

Harriet was still looking at him suspiciously. “No that’s not it,” she said, finishing her wrap and throwing her rubbish in the waste bin, “You were practically glued to it this morning still. Plus, you’ve just let the Prime Minister walk alone into an important meeting. Usually you either talk your way in, or you have your ear glued firmly at the door ready to burst in at any provocation. Yet, here you are, laughing over the Prime Minister being potentially maimed by a cat and hanging around doing no work in the office while an important meeting is going on. Also, you’re not eating your lunch, which you usually snuffle up quickly, while emailing and making phone calls simultaneously. What’s happened?”

“Nothing!” Drummond responded defensively. “I had some cake earlier, so I’m just not as hungry as usual.”

“Cake?” Harriet said, screwing her eyes up even further, squinting at him like he was a pod person. “When did you have time for cake? You were at the palace all morning, weren’t you?”

“Yes, Harriet, I had cake at the palace,” he said slowly, hoping she wouldn’t question him too much further. He was out of luck though. Once she smelt a rat, she tracked it down.

“You’re a senior politician accompanying the Prime Minister on an official visit to see the Head of State, not a small child attending a birthday party. C’mon, spill. Who gave you the cake?”

Drummond finally relented. He knew Harriet would persist until she got the whole story. At least this way he could control the story, release the details he wanted to. “Well, I couldn’t go in with the Prime Minister to see the Queen. It’s a private audience and they weren’t about the change the tradition for me.”

“True,“ she said nodding her head, “Although, if anyone could talk their way in, it would be you.” She stuck her tongue out at him and grinned, “Right so, you’re waiting for the Prime Minister. Where does the cake come in to play? What sort was it?”

He shrugged his shoulders, “Cake,” Drummond replied.

Harriet rolled her eyes, “They have flavours!” she said grabbing the other half of the chicken wrap off him, once convinced he wasn’t going to eat it. 

Drummond could describe every single bit of that cake, to the colour, to the detail, to the intense flavours that still lingered on his palette. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t want to eat his lunch. He wanted to keep the flavour there for just a little longer. He didn’t want to give anything away to Harriet. Just describing the moment would reveal more than he was comfortable with, he nervously bit the side of his lip when he was lying, and Harriet knew that tell.

“So, who gave you the cake?” Harriet asked, relentlessly continuing her questioning.

Drummond sighed. He knew she wasn’t going to let go, so he would just tell her the facts as casually as he could, and hope the Prime Minister would get into some sort of scrape within the next few minutes that he had to go sort out.

“I was waiting outside and one of the Queen’s employees brought me a piece of cake. She insists all her visitors have a slice,” he said, trying to make the whole situation sound routine and natural.

“So, one of the servants brought you cake,” she said, thinking it through, “Did he stay with you to ensure you didn’t run off with the silver ware?”

“No,” Drummond responded moving around the room, pretending to look for some paperwork on Peel’s desk. Anything to make sure he wasn’t making eye contact with his ruthless friend. “I was already being attended to.”

Harriet spat out a laugh at his choice of words and flicked back her dark hair. “Attended to? Go on then, tell me who was attending to you,” she said with a glint in her eye and a wickedness in her voice.

“It was one of the Queen’s employees,” Drummond replied. He thought he should slip in a bit more detail now and hope Harriet didn’t catch up on it. “Major Alfred Paget. The Queen asked him to keep me company. Simple as that.” He was flicking through the paperwork quickly now, his eyes not focusing on anything, but quietly trying to stop his cheeks from pinking up. He didn’t like talking about this sort of thing.

“Wait,” Harriet said, not missing a word that Drummond said, and proceeded on with a big grin on her face. “Alfred Paget is also a member of the Royal Family. He wouldn’t have to stay with you, even if the Queen did ask. He could just pass the job off to a servant. Did he have a slice of cake as well?”

“He shared mine,” Drummond said, before cursing himself for saying that. Why didn’t he just lie and say he had his own piece and it was very civil and then he left?

Harriet jumped off the table, threw the remaining chicken wrap in the bin and looked straight at Drummond. “You shared a piece of cake? Because I’m sure there’s such a shortage of food in Buckingham Palace!”

“Don’t make such a thing out of it, Harriet,” Drummond said, now knowing his cheeks were bright red and that he was very obviously not doing anything productive with the pieces of paper he was flustering about with in his hands. “A servant brought out some cake in a napkin, we sat on the floor together sharing it, while –“

“Oh. My. God!” Harriet interrupted, walking round the back of the desk and taking Drummond by the shoulders. “You’re in love.”

Drummond shook away her grip and rolled his eyes at her. ”Don’t be so silly. I met the man for an hour.”

“Well,“ said Harriet, “Maybe not in love. Not yet anyway. But certainly ensorcelled.” She was now grinning profusely and perched herself back on the desk. “This is so sweet, Drummond. I knew one day you’d find someone who you thought was more appealing than poll numbers!”

“Harriet! Stop!” he said forcefully, running his fingers through his hair. “Firstly, I don’t have time for a relationship. Secondly, I think you know that any interactions between the palace and the Prime Minister’s office need to be purely professional. Thirdly, I grew up in a two-bedroom flat, I doubt a member of the Royal family will even be slightly interested in me. Lastly, well you know what the last thing is. You of all people know why it can’t happen. So just leave it, please.”

Harriet looked at him for a minute and he hoped he had convinced her to drop the subject. His luck seemed to be out though, as she motioned for him to sit down. He did as he was told, knowing not to get on the wrong side of his friend. “Okay,” she said, folding her arms like she meant business. “Firstly, you can stop that ‘I don’t have time for love’ crap right now. We’re not trying to claw our way to the top anymore, Drummond. We’re here and you can hire a hundred people to take care of the work you do. In fact, you should do that, you do far too much. That would leave you plenty of time to actually enjoy your life rather than watch it go by in a speed of emails.”

Drummond started peeling at the skin by his thumb. He knew that most the work he did could be delegated out. He was just so used to depending on himself, only really have Peel and Harriet as people he could trust. That was fine when they were only running in the local constituency, but he knew it was too much now.

“Secondly,” Harriet continued, “We’re not the previous government, we won’t be overcome by sordid rumours and gossip. You’ve got to stop worrying about things you can’t control. No one is going to ask you not to date someone. In fact, it might be something good. Bring some closeness to us and the palace. Thirdly, both you and the Prime Minister have got to stop acting like you’re just two poor street children working down the mines. You are extremely bright; you’re an Oxford educated shining star, who managed to get a nobody from nowhere elected to the highest office in the country, almost singlehandedly. During the election, you took apart the best minds and political commentators in a matter of minutes, with just your words. You don’t have a clue, but you are one of the most powerful people in the country.”

Drummond cringed a little at her words. He knew it was the path he was on, the path he wanted and aimed for. It was just coming up so fast. He felt like he hadn’t taken a breath.  
“Plus, and I say this completely objectively,” she said and crinkled up her nose, like something was leaving a bad taste in her mouth, “You are totally hot. Trust me. That’s not easy for me to say. It just feels wrong, you’re like a little brother.” She shivered slightly at the thought and then grinned.

“And that last thing,” Harriet continued, her face becoming serious. “You know how I feel about that. I told you at the time it was wrong. It’s easy to fix though. All you have to do is say the word.”

Harriet leaned over and gently ruffled his hair. He knew he was making excuses to a certain extent, but how could he change the habits of a lifetime. Before he could think much further, there was a loud shout coming from another part of the building. It was the unmistakable bellow of Robert Peel.

Harriet looked at Drummond, took his hand and pulled him to his feet. “Right, come on Romeo,” she said, pushing him towards the door. “I think we know where Larry has got to, and this time it’s your turn to deal with what ever part of the Prime Minister he’s got his claws into.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've borrowed a few lines from the amazing The West WIng and manipulated them to suit my needs. As well as stealing my chapter names from their titles. So thanks The West WIng!


End file.
